


Burn the Witch.

by 3BeesAndCoffee3



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Disabled Character, Evil Bucky Barnes, Hospitals, Hydra (Marvel), Hydra Sucks Ass, Injury Recovery, Kinda, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Night Terrors, Not literally, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Recovery, Slow Build, Super Soldier Serum, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Worried Steve Rogers, burn scars, but still, disabled Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-01-30 04:46:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12646389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3BeesAndCoffee3/pseuds/3BeesAndCoffee3
Summary: Steve gets Bucky back for what feels like the millionth time after Hydra tries to reclaim him again, only nothing seems to go right, and now he's not sure he has him back at all.or, where Bucky’s been gone for too long and severely injured while Steve tries to rescue him, and even now that he’s back, he isn't himself





	1. Pt.1

**Author's Note:**

> Bucky’s been gone for too long, and even now that he’s back, he hardly feels the same. Maybe there’s a reason for that?

Are you okay?“

Bucky shook his head, eyes still trained on the floor. His whole body felt like lead.

"Hey, can you look at me?”

Another shake of his head, smaller this time.

“Buck,” he can hear Steve’s concern all over. “It’s okay, come on, lemme see.”

Nothing.

“Please?”

He doesn’t answer again, doesn’t even shake his head, and Steve gently reaches out, touches his chin ever so gently. He flinches anyways. Steve’s hands are cold and unsteady. They aren't like Steve's hands at all.

His head hurts so much.

“Hey, come on,” Steve urges again, voice still soft like he was talking to a child or a hurt animal. So soft, he wants to envelop himself in it.

He tightens around himself again, even more, pretending his muscles don’t ache from the tenseness running through his whole body. His legs shake with anxiety and the stress of it all. He feels like he’s going crazy.

“Can’t,” Bucky finally rasps. His voice is like sandpaper, god his throat is dry. It’s wavering, like he might cry. He wouldn’t be surprised if he did. “Please.”

Steve almost pulls his hand away. He feels the hesitation. He can tell he doesn't know what to do, he doesn’t know what he wants Steve to do either.

Instead, Steve gently moves it to his shoulder. His good shoulder, or at least the metal one. The one that doesn't hurt. His other arm wraps delicately around Bucky’s middle and he kind of hugs him. It’s loose and awkward, and Bucky’s arms stay limp on either side of him, but it feels almost good. 

Almost.

“It’s okay, it’s alright.” Steve whispers.


	2. Pt.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has to keep trying, even if he doesn't want to.   
> God, if only he'd known what that entailed.

Bucky sleeps for most of the day, his body curled around a mess of blankets. His body still aches, it’s still quivering like a leaf too, but he’s not shakily supporting his whole body anymore. The bed is doing that just fine.

The sheets, the blankets, straight down to the pillowcase smells sickeningly like Steve. It’s comforting, don't get him wrong, his Cologne, his aftershave, just him, it's perfect. But, he doesn’t deserve that kind of comfort, does he? He sure as hell doesn't think so.

There’s a soft, hardly audible knock at the door a few moments later. At Steve’s door, because this is where he stays now. He tenses a little before he remembers that really, it’s probably Steve, and then he gets himself to calm down a little.

He doesn’t answer, but the door creaks open anyways.

He doesn’t turn to look either, but he doesn’t close his eyes or try and act asleep, he just stares blearily at the far wall. It's not worth it.

“Buck?”

He stays silent. It hurts to talk, and he doesn’t want to anyways. He feels numb.

“I brought you some soup,” he offers softly, and god knows the last time he tried to eat anything, but it still makes him feel sick at the thought alone. “Buck?”

He sighs softly, pulls the blanket up further. He just doesn’t want to deal. He wishes he’d died back there.

Steve crosses the room carefully across the carpeted floor, crouches down in front of Bucky so he doesn’t really have anywhere to turn to avoid him. He’s holding a bowl in his hands, and it smells good, makes his mouth water a little. He’s smiling, Steve is always smiling.

“it looks better,” Steve says softly, looking over the mess of cuts and whatever else is on his face, like that’s supposed to help anything. Bucky almost laughs.

“Bullshit,” he grunts, and his voice sounds worse than before. Like there’s still smoke in his lungs, like he’s been drowned, he doesn’t know anymore, but it hurts like hell and it’s gruff and near impossible to hear.

Steve looks pitying but he shakes his head a little, smiling softly still. “No, I mean it,” he says, and it really makes no difference no matter how many times he says it. Bucky knows it’s a lie. “You should eat something though, let me help you get cleaned up?”

Bucky looks at him, through his blurred vision. He stays quiet. He hasn't even seen the damage done, just popped the pain pills when ordered to and slept the rest of the time.

“Please, for me?” And Steve looks like he hurts asking him. It makes his stomach clench a little, and he wants to cry-–he wants to be able to accept all of this, wants to give Steve what he wants more than anything, but he can’t. He’s so angry with himself. He loathes himself.

He gives a tiny nod, pretends it doesn’t hurt.

Steve’s whole god damn face lights up like a Christmas tree on a Brooklyn street. It makes him glad he agreed, just a little.

“Thank you, thank you, I’ve got you, okay?”

Bucky nods a little, tries to smile, but it’s hard, it hurts and he can hardly feel enough to do so. He thinks that probably isn't normal.

They struggle the next few minutes as Steve tries to move Bucky into a sitting position, leaning back against the wall. It’s hard, because honestly Bucky is dead weight, even when he tries, it does little. Eventually, they get it and he’s slumped back against the headboard, unreasonably out of breath. Steve tugs the blankets back up around Bucky.

“There you go,” Steve says gently, and then he moves up on the bed besides Bucky. “Will you eat for me now?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, because at this point what would be the point in saying no? It’s too late and he’s already sitting up, and he’s hungry.

“Here,” he says softly, kneeling next to him. He looks like a god damn teddybear, perched there giving Bucky these big doe-eyes with a bowl of soup in his lap and a spoon in his hand.

Bucky opens his mouth hesitantly, as much as he can anyways, which isn’t a lot. He hears scabs peeling away from his stiffened skin around his mouth and it hurts enough he stops trying to open up wider.

“take it slow,” Steve murmurs, holding the spoon steady until he gives a tiny nod and then he moves the spoon to Bucky’s lips. The spoon is cold against his lips and they’re so chapped it hurts, and honestly, he almost pushes away but he can’t. He needs food, needs to eat, even if it’s just for show, for Steve.

He slowly closes his mouth around the bite full and it kind of burns, it’s not really hot though, his mouth is just sore all over and raw, dry. He swallows, has to clench his eyes shut because fuck, it feels like a desert, like his throat has been ripped apart and cut all over, it’s like pin pricks the whole way down.

“Hey, hey, you okay?”

“Fine-,” Bucky rasps, kind of pretends he isn’t drooling on himself. God, he’s got nothing anymore. He’s so shameless at this point, he doesn’t care. He knows he should.

“Does it hurt?” Steve asks gently, and he’s so quiet Bucky almost things he’s scared to ask. He looks so worried, probably is.

He shrugs a little bit, it does, but he doesn’t want to admit it. He’s never been good at lying to Steve though, even when he was a kid and they lied to everyone about everything. It was different with Steve.

“Too hot?”

He shakes his head, closes his eyes to ease the throbbing dullness behind his eyes.

“Just need to take it slow?”

He gives an affirmative little hum. God, that hurts too.

“Okay, that’s fine. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

So they stay like that and Steve spends what must be the better part of an hour gently feeding Bucky spoonfuls of soup until almost all of it’s gone and there’s just little bits of potato and grains at the bottom. “There we go,” Steve says, and again, he sounds like he’s talking to a newborn kitten. “Feel any better?”

His throat is sore, like when he would just be getting over strep or a bad cold, but it was better. His head was swimming a little but he guessed the headache had faded a little, he just felt a little dizzy now, sick to his stomach. He’s not honestly sure how long it’s been since his last real meal, something that wasn’t through a tube forced down his throat.

The thought alone makes him all the more queasy and he sinks back more, something he didn’t know possible, but the pillow mass he has behind him gives a little bit more and it almost feels good.

“Yeah, m'better,” Bucky mutters softly.

“You’re lookin’ kinda pale,” Steve says with a furrowed brow because he always worries so much.

“Jus’ tired,” he responds, and that part is true, completely, but he’s tired and he hurts and he’s kind of terrified.

“Get some rest, you can wash up later,” Steve says with a tiny urge in his voice that’s really endearing.

Begrudgingly, he agrees, because he could sleep right now. It’s usually all he does now anyways. “Stay?” He asks, voice shaky, still scratchy.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he says in a rush, and he scoots to be beside him instead of perched awkwardly in front of him. He settles in against Bucky’s side without quite touching him. It feels good, just to have him close, even if it is selfish.

He sleeps for the next several hours, pressed against Steve’s body. He’s so warm, it feels good. He fell asleep with Steve’s hand gently carding through his hair, and when he woke up again, Steve had slumped onto him, hand on Bucky’s shoulder where it had fallen limply. His lips were parted and he looked peaceful and quiet, even if it was tender on Bucky’s torn and raw skin.

When Steve does wakes up, it’s slowly enough that Bucky doesn’t even notice at first, he’s too busy just kind of lazily staring at the muscles in Steve’s arm, or the wall sometimes. Then he makes a noise, just kind of lazy and tired, a little hum.

“Hey,” he croaks, and he still sounds so tired and so much like Steve.

Bucky makes a little noise in response. He doesn’t feel like drawing more attention to the difference in his voice again. This is just easier.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Steve mumbles softly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’s still against Bucky’s body, and he hopes he never moves. He wishes they could stay like this forever, where he feels good and safe. “Are you doing okay?”

Bucky nods a little, his neck aches like he’s been stuck in a box for days. Everything hurts now.

“Good,” he hums, and kind of snuggles up closer into Bucky’s side, under his chin.

They just lay like that until Steve finally hoists himself up, runs a hand through his hair and looks at Bucky with a determined little smile. “Let’s go get you bathed, yeah?”

Bucky heaves a sigh, lord he doesn’t want to do this.

“Come on. It’ll be okay, I’ve got ya,” he mutters softly, and he kind of thinks he’s comforting himself more than anything.

He slowly helps Bucky until he’s sitting up more, not so slouched down. His joints pop a little under the movement, but it’s not so bad. “M'gonna stand you up now, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, slowly, it’s okay. This okay?”

“It’s fine, Stevie.”

“Okay, come on, hold on to my shoulders?”

Bucky’s hands were shaky, and honestly it kind of hurt just lifting his arms, but he managed and once Steve was hoisting him up, he felt like an entire weight was just lifted. He was actually up, and it wasn't a bad little victory.

He was dizzy, had to lean into Steve’s side because his legs were like jello. He hadn’t moved much in weeks, let alone stand.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Steve’s voice is soft and reassuring, arms around Bucky. He’s the only reason he’s standing, he thinks.

“Yeah, yeah, m'good,” he says softly, but he’s starting to shake a little, getting weak in the knees, and the air is biting at his face in the worst way.

“Okay, bathroom?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, one step at a time, you’ve got this.”

Silence, still walking. Slow steps.

“Little bit further, then we’ll get you nice and clean, okay?”

Shaky breathing, few more steps. His fingers are shaking too, white knuckled. His fucking legs feel like he’s walking on stilts, he’s gonna fall over any second now.

“Steve–”

“It’s okay, you’re okay.”

“I can’t, Steve,” he rasps, and he’s never been so out of breath before over such a small thing. He's almost positive that the serum should be doing more than this, it should be doing something at least.

Steve shushes him again, stops walking long enough to scoop Bucky up like he’s weightless.

He groans a little, blushing and closing his eyes to try and hide, because he can’t hide his face anywhere. “Steve,” he whines a little but Steve just chuckles and carries him the rest of the way to the bathroom.

"I said iv'e got you."

He sets him on the edge of the closed toilet seat, and Bucky curls into himself a little, shivering. Maybe he has a fever again, maybe he’s just not used to being out from under the blankets. He’s not sure, but he hates it. Hates the cold.

It’s okay though, he’s doing okay. He’s breathing, watching with his limited, bleary vision as Steve starts the bath, testing the water. He looks like a concerned mother.

He’s okay, and then he’s looking across the tiny bathroom, at the peeling, soft blue wallpaper, at the tiny, dirty, oval mirror on the wall, and his skin goes cold, clammy, and his heart thuds hard and fast. He feels sick, all the way from his stomach, up his throat like acid. He’s between freezing to death and burning up, between starved and so full he might puke, between panicked and absolutely still, uncaring, shell shocked.

His hair is shorter in some places, shaggy. It’s longer on the left side like he remembered it being, the right side… it’s choppy, burnt. Singed.

That’s hardly even notable, in contrast to the novels he could write on everything else.

“Bucky?”

Silence.

He can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the image in front of him. It feels like he’s looking at some kind of sick joke, but the burning, the constant raw sting of his skin is sign enough it isn’t. This is reality, and it’s bad enough he wants to curl into himself, let a shell build up around him like a fucking castle wall. He’s shaking all over, can’t even control it. There’s gnawing pain in his chest now too, just awareness and shock, really.

The right side of his face, just below the bits of fried hair on his head, is completely gone. No, not gone, more replaced. Replaced by something Bucky can’t begin to recognize. It’s a horror story, it can’t he himself, but it can’t not be, either.

“Buck,” he repeats softly from where he’s perched by the tub still. He’s unmoving. He’s sure if he was to look, he’d be giving him that sad dog look.

Nothing. He can’t talk.

The skin around his eye is open and raw, blistered in places, and it’s shiny almost, with a pus-like kind of ooze that would've made him sick a few years ago. A sign of infection he’s familiar with, not that it eases the shock any.

He should have known it was this bad.

His eye itself is another story altogether. It’s peeling, like a grape, sickening layers of tissue bubbled and pulling away from itself. It’s white, mostly, where it’s not bloodshot. He can see his pupil, he thinks, but it’s so damn murky. He can’t even hardly see out of that damn eye and now he knows why. He knows why the stupid doctors kept a patch over it, kept such close attention to it.

“Bucky? Hey…”

Silence. Can’t breathe, he really can't.

But, he’s still breathing.

Below the eye isn’t anything different, if not a little worse. It travels down his neck and onto the tiniest bit of his shoulder, around the collar bone too. It’s all raw and fleshy, scarring. It looks disgusting, like some kind of nightmare, and it smells a little too, if he’s honest with himself. Like decay. Everything is bunt and open to the air and everything else. He literally looks like he's been set on fire.

“Bucky, it’s okay.”

Nothing. 

He wishes he could die. Wishes Steve would disappear.

His face is gone, he recognizes so little of it now, and he feels himself sway, even though he’s sitting, feels his stomach turn, feels himself wish he’d never woken up.


	3. Pt.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve does what he can to comfort Bucky after seeing himself properly for the first time since he came back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love! Hopefully I can update more regularly now??

His eye, the one that actually fucking works, is bleary now too, fogged over with a bitter sting of tears. He doesn’t want to cry, not at all, and not around Steve. It’ll hurt his skin, his throat, it’ll mean that he’s accepting this. He doesn’t want to cry.

“Bucky, look at me, please?”

He still hasn’t looked away, just continued staring at his reflection, even though its foreign to him now. He can’t stop staring. This is what they did to him? This is what happened?

He remembers with little clarity the sounds of alarms. He remembers the feeling of strong hands around his biceps, both flesh and metal, tugging him along with his knees scabbing and cut and hurting along the rough concrete beneath him. He remembers, kind of like a dream, being dropped into a cell, maybe more of a crate, and locked in, left. He remembers bits of Russian.

He remembers Steve, just barely, and then he remembers gunfire and threats, aimed at him, he’s not sure who from. HYDRA, that much he knows. He remembers most vividly, as a tall, thin looking man shouting, unwilling to let Bucky be used against them. He'd have their Asset die before fall back with Steve.

Used. Always being used for something.

He remembers the collar, tight around his neck shocking every fiber of his body. He remembers his muscles tightening and constricting without permission, his body hitting the floor. He remembers blacking out, and waking up, blacking out. It had been vague, tedious. 

He remembers pain, screaming even though he couldn’t tell he was. But this? His skin blistered and bloody? His face fucking burnt off? No, he didn’t remember that.

He recalls waking up drugged and groggy in a hospital some days later. He doesn’t remember much else, pain, shivering as a fever wracked his body. He thinks they must have put him out a lot, for him to have slept the main duration of his stay. He might just be thankful. 

Steve had been there, but he couldn’t remember what he’d said or did. Probably just comforted.

“Bucky!”

That was loud, loud enough he snaps his eyes away from the mirror anyways. Loud enough he jumps a little. He thinks he must look about ready to pass out because Steve comes to crouch in front of him, maybe steady him a little.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, come on, focus on me,” he says softly, encouraging as always.

He’s not sure how he’s supposed to focus on Steve. Not when he knows, not when he’s seen what’s all over his face. Or what used to be his face. The room is spinning, kind of tilting like a carnival ride.

Steve brushes the pad of his thumb along Bucky’s cheek, wiping away tears. When had he started crying?

“You’re shaking,” Steve breathes, though Bucky’s already aware. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“It’s–this is not okay.”

Steve hangs his head a little, and Jesus he looks guilty. It’s not his fault, it’s not. It’s no ones fault but HYDRA, always them. He doesn’t want Steve to think it’s his fault, but he can’t even form words. “I know, I’m so sorry, I know.”

“I can’t,” Bucky hiccups. He’s crying more now, it’s noticeable. It hurts now at least.

“no, no, shh,” Steve says hurriedly, all while trying to maintain his calm. He’s doing okay, but nothing’s helping the swell of panic in his throat and chest. “You can, it’ll be okay, it’ll get better.”

Bucky wants to say he’s right, even if it’s only to himself, in his distant knowledge, but he honestly thinks Steve’s wrong. Would Steve lie to him to make him feel better? Maybe. Always good intentions.

“No,” Bucky rasps through some kind of broken sob. “I can’t.”

Steve sighs softly, upset as he strokes the short bits of Bucky’s hair. “Okay, okay,” he says softly, just above a whisper. “Let’s just get you cleaned up for now, yeah? Is that okay?”

He wants to scream, just has the fear and anger starting to bubble up like stomach acid. He wants to say no, have Steve leave and let him curl into a ball and just cry until he can’t anymore. Until he can’t even breathe. He wants it to stop, all of the pain and fear, all of the damage.

“Okay,” he mumbles, his voice is wavering still, tears running down his face. He can’t stop them anymore, doesn’t even want to try. He surprises even himself at his response.

“Okay,” Steve repeats with a little nod.

He helps him stand, and the second he is, he’s burying his face into the crook of Steve’s neck, ignoring the bite at his skin. He’s grasping at Steve’s shoulders, his whole body is shaking, wracked with sobs and he can hardly breathe the way his chest is heaving.

“Oh, shh, Bucky,” Steve murmurs, frowning against the side of Bucky’s head. He’s probably scaring the shit out of Steve, he’s never really so undone, but he can’t stop or find it in him to care enough that he stops. He needs Steve, needs something to hold onto, because he feels like he’s going insane.

After a while, his breathing is in short little hiccups, wheezy. He feels dizzy, but kind of calm, almost disturbingly tranquil. He’s just tired now, Steve’s the main thing keeping him standing.

“There you go, it’s alright.”

He’s quiet, but nods a little, just so he doesn’t worry Steve anymore. It isn't alright.

“Bath?”

“yeah, yeah of course, come on,” Steve says hurriedly, like it’s some kind of emergency.

He’s so worried all the time, and it’s Bucky's fault, really.

He let Steve gently undress him, though he’s only wearing briefs and a nightshirt anyways. He maneuver him into the bath, hissing with the water laps over the tender skin around his chest and on bits of his arm.

“You okay?” Steve asks with a worried look, hands hovering uselessly, like he isn’t sure what to do.

“Yeah–yeah, m'good,” Bucky assures even though his whole body is ridged. He can’t help it, it does hurt, it hurts like hell. He likes the warmth though, when it comes down to it, so he tries to relax, because he needs to finally wash up anyways. What little the nurses had done while he was unconscious with a couple rags had been undone by the bleed of his injuries days after and since had only gotten worse.

“Okay, okay, good.”

Bucky closes his eyes, though he can hardly feel the other at all. That’s terrifying all on its own, so he breathes in deep.

Silence. He’s breathing, relaxing. It’s okay.

“Steve?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t go?”

He can hear Steve shift beside him, he’s sitting down on the floor by the tub now, he guesses. “Of course not,” he says gently. “I’ll stay right here.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, doesn’t really have to. That’s all he needs.

Maybe at some point, this would have been odd, or extremely intimate even; having Steve so close while Bucky’s there, naked and hurting, dependent. Now it just seems kind of normal. He and Steve were always intimate, in some way, so really it shouldn’t surprise him. It doesn’t. Besides, HYDRA stripped away dignity and respect away a long time ago, maybe even before his brain went through a blender.

There’s a drip in the faucet, making tiny plopping noises every few seconds as it hits the still water, and besides that, it’s just their breathing. It’s so quiet.

“Can I wash you?” Steve asks gently, almost carefully. The way he says it is confident, he doesn’t sound like it’s a chore at all. He sounds like he wants to take care of Bucky, wants to be close. He can’t possibly want any of this. He wouldn’t.

Isn’t Bucky just a chore for Steve now anyways?

“Yeah,” he answers finally, cracking his eye open to peer at Steve. There’s no doubt on Steve’s face, not that he really thought there would be.

Steve’s sitting on the bath mat, legs folded under him and his hands resting in his lap. He looks like a puppy, it’s almost enough to make Bucky want to laugh.

“Okay,” Steve says with a little nod, reaching up to grab a washcloth off of the little stand by the toilet and bathtub. It’s navy blue, fuzzy. It looks soft and nice, comforting, and Bucky’s kind of here for it. “I’ll be as carful as possible, but I’ve gotta clean the burns too, okay? You tell me if it hurts.”

Bucky nods, watching as he dips it into the water and rings it out. He squirts a little soap onto it, lathering it until it’s foamy and soft looking. It smells like peppermint because of course Steve has god damn peppermint soap.

He smiles at Bucky briefly before bringing it to the joint of his good shoulder. It’s laughable that his missing arm is now the good arm. The metal arm made by HYDRA is the good arm. The water dribbles over his skin as he gently rubs circles into his skin. It feels admittedly wonderful. The soap is soft and smells fairly pleasant too, even if he’s gonna smell like a Christmas shop for days after.

“This okay?”

“Yeah, it’s nice,” Bucky admits, his voice is still kind of unsteady, nasally from crying, but he finds he doesn’t really give a shit.

Steve hums approvingly, clearly happy to hear that as he continues to massage Bucky’s muscles. He’s staying to the left side only, like there’s a big, invisible line divided down the center of his body. It’s okay though, he can just pretend it’s not there, and that it’s not happening. He knows he’s probably starting where it’s going to hurt least, but it still helps a little.

“You’re doing great,” Steve comments after a little more time passes. Even though it’s stupid, because he’s literally sitting in a tub while Steve washes him, the words make him feel a little better. Not proud, but more at ease.

“I kinda need to wash the wounds too, okay?” He asks gently, watching Bucky’s face so carefully it makes him want to hide under it. ‘Wounds’ sounds like such an odd word to use. It’s the majority of his body. Wounds most generally heal, this is some kind of disability, some kind of deformity he’ll live with for the rest of his life. Maybe Steve’s words were just wishful thinking, because Bucky can’t imagine him believing it’ll get better. The burns will scab over and scar, the sting will fade, and the blood will stop oozing every time he moves the wrong way, but it won’t ever be gone. He’ll always have scars, a useless eye, god knows what else.

“'Kay,” Bucky says softly anyways, despite his thoughts. His brain is going haywire right now anyways, there’s no use in mentioning any of this. He thinks they might as well pour a whole bottle of antiseptic over his body, but if Steve wants to wash it himself like this, he won’t say no.

He applies more soap, this ones to a different rag and as far as he can tell, it’s scentless, just clear and thick. Probably antibacterial, to actually clean it.

Steve carefully brings it to Bucky’s chest, right at the first real burn there. It’s oddly shaped, almost like a circle but with several patches that spike off the side, going down over his peck and onto bits of his neck. It burns, and Bucky flinches back instinctively, sucks in a breath and squeezes his eyes shut. He wasn’t completely ready after all. He’d known it would hurt, but now there was reality to this and he wished he’d never left his bed.


End file.
